


Es el voto que el alma pronuncia

by dame5



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2010, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Uruguay National Team
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-14 07:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15384012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame5/pseuds/dame5
Summary: It’s a mistake to attribute Edi’s pliancy to his youth, because Luisito is the same age and he’s quite the opposite in temperament and personality. It was just in Edi’s nature to be fluid. Like water.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luxover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/gifts).



“De verdad—ni si quiera lo digo porque soy ‘El Loco’,” Sebastián Abreu lolls his head against the head rest of his bus seat, “Hay que pensar que se puede llegar a la final.” His black eyes meet Diego’s and he smiles his wild smile.

“No, no…I _get_ it,” Diego diverts his gaze briefly, “but you also have to stay _grounded_.” He observes Seba raise his camera recorder to his face just as he speaks “Hay que ser realista—”

“—y hacer lo imposible.” Seba finishes Diego’s sentence, his dimples cutting deeper into his face as his smile grows wider.

“You two are so cute, it makes me want to throw up.”

Diego eyebrows leap, while Seba’s grin fades by a few degrees, and Luisito sticks his head from behind.

“¿En serio, Cacha? ¿Le estas poniendo los cuernos a Zai con este boludo?”

Diego turns while biting down on his lower lip and swats his hand playfully over Luis’ face.

“¿Te conté que a veces te pones demasiado pesado, Luisito?” He smiles as his hand slides to grab a hold of Luis’ jaw, shaking it. He knows Luis hates it when others touch his face, yet Diego finds it amusing how he lets him get away with it. Luisito's eyes dart back and forth nervously before his face relaxes into a grin.

“Con permiso.” Diego gets up from his seat and steps onto the isle to stretch.

He notices how a lot of the talking and nervous chatter had quieted down from earlier. The ride back to the hotel after playing their first group stage match against France isn’t lively. They drew, nil – nil. Which is _okay_ , Diego figures, but it isn’t exactly a great start.

It’s a team effort, but he blames himself.

Months earlier, before the World Cup qualifying match against Venezuela, El Maestro approached him. His reprimands never lasted more than two minutes:

“ _Cacha_ ,” El Maestro began, “You’re committed. You come in. You train hard. You put in the work...” Oscar Tabárez gestured to Diego to move aside so he could sit beside him.

For reasons Diego doesn’t understand, El Maestro always sought to be at the same level when talking to you— _especially_ if what he had to deliver was a blow or reprimand. If you were sitting, he took a seat. If you were standing, he rose from where he was sitting. It was always like that. Eye to eye. Man to man. Though everyone knew without question that he was the boss, Tabárez spoke to everyone as an _equal_. He continues:

“This is the _minimum_ that I require from all of you. Any less and I would not call you to be a part of _La Selección_.”

He knows it’s coming when Tabárez narrows his eyes and Diego has to clench his fists hard enough to feel his fingernails digging into his skin. Not even the layers upon layers of skin he’s built over the years protects his sense of self-worth when it comes to El Maestro’s criticism.

“Diego, I _need_ you to be a leading presence on the pitch. This is where you’re lacking,” Tabárez usually paused for a moment between each point he wanted to drive in, “In _La Selección_ , there is a time to receive…and there is a time to give back. And _you_ , Diego…you are _experienced_ and have received enough to give back.”

Diego thinks of how the feeling of being a newcomer to _La_ _Selección_ never really wore off. Falling in and taking orders was what he was used to. It was not his duty to bark commands. Being a _leader_. To mentor the young blood that graduated from the Under-20 squad—the _guirises_ who would carry the torch. It’s a responsibility he doesn’t know how to carry out.

“When you put on _La Celeste_ , you put on _Uruguay_. Our hymn that we sing before every match—it’s our battle cry. Like all the others with you and those before you…you renew your vow. A vow you have made with your soul.”

El Maestro left his side, and as Diego leaned forward to secure the shoelaces on his boots, he couldn’t help but stew.

He didn’t realize it until much later, that this anger was just a mask. An emotional way to cover up an underdeveloped part of his character. It was a pain that stemmed from an indefatigable guilt of not being enough. Of never being able to measure up to what everyone saw in him. Of what everyone wanted him to be.

In all of his silent efforts of trying to live to others’ expectations, he was losing the sense of who he was. And what it was that he really wanted.

When? And at what age does one really start living for oneself? When does one finally stop answering to others? And start answering to oneself?

He promises El Maestro that he will lead. And though he thinks to himself that he didn’t have it in him to be the leader Oscar needed him to be, he could act like one.

They say that if you act the part, you eventually become it.

On the bus, Diego raps his knuckles absentmindedly on the headrest of an empty seat. Based on the outcome today, he knows he will have to re-double his efforts.

He scans the area looking for El Tota Lugano and realizes that he moved from where he usually sits up front to the back. He’s now beside Edi, who’s sitting by the window. The way the kid looks at El Tota—rapt in awe, hand over his mouth as Lugano speaks to him makes him wonder what they’re discussing.

Edi was one of the young ones El Maestro decided to call up last minute. Though it’s clear Tabárez favored Luisito over Edi, by now Diego knew he would not call up the kid without any rhyme or reason.

Experience had allowed El Maestro to foresee the worst and to be prepared: In the event Luisito succumbed to injury, or his temper and impulsivity resulted in his expulsion, he had Edi to fill this space. And while the boy isn’t exactly the model of what El Maestro looked upon with favor, he appreciated Edi’s flexibility. His willingness to learn. To become whatever it was that El Maestro needed him to be without any protest. It’s a mistake to attribute Edi’s pliancy to his youth, because Luisito is the same age and he’s quite the opposite in temperament and personality. It was just in Edi’s nature to be fluid. Like water.

The kid’s liked by the team, but of course there were others, like El Loco, who didn’t like him. He argued that for a boy so quiet, so standoffish, Edi displayed a lot of bravado…just too much pent-up aggression on the pitch that made his efforts at the attack messy and predictable. Football is the embodiment of the art of war, and the kid was going about it the wrong way. Also—the discrepancy between who he was on and off the pitch which made it difficult for El Loco to get a good, clean read off him—and by extension—it made Edi difficult to _trust_.

To start off, El Loco wasn’t sure if Edi’s shyness was self-absorption or even a false meekness. Even his kindness felt calculated—a _cheap_ attempt to win a spot when he had yet to suffer for Uruguay’s honor when he took up the shirt. _La Selección_ was sacred. It was not the place to seek vainglory. And El Loco swore from just the few weeks they had been training together that he could not see any detectable trace of selflessness in the boy. But Diego disagrees with him.

From where he’s standing, Diego takes note of the way Edi’s dark eyes catch light when they widen. The kid happens to smile, and his joy radiates from the way his eyebrows leap and his eyes narrow.

It’s even in these little moments that Diego has to disagree with El Loco’s impression of Edi. Every feature and expression is so pure, so clean that Diego finds this transparency somewhat captivating. How he arrives at the opposite conclusion from El Loco is something he doesn’t think about.

Sometimes, people don’t click for the stupidest of reasons.

Diego makes his way to the back and takes the empty seat in the row next to where Lugano and Edi are sitting. El Tota turns to Diego.

“I was just telling Edi here that he could have been a game-changer if El Maestro had put him in to play after half-time,” Lugano gestures with his head. “Now he’ll be playing next match—against South Africa. El Maestro just confirmed it,” He turns to slap his hand against Edi’s thigh, “Y ahora, con permiso.”

As El Tota squeezes out to make his way back to the front, Edi’s eyes briefly meet Diego’s before he looks down, placing a hand over the book on his lap.

Diego almost takes this as a sign that Edi is probably tired and doesn’t want to talk to anyone anymore. But from the little he’s interacted with him, he remembers it wasn’t so much that he was standoffish as much as he was just shy. He was not as brash as the Montevideanos. He was a _Salte_ _ño_. A country boy.

“What are you reading?” Diego asks to make small talk. He takes the seat next to him and surprises himself when he realizes what a stupid question it is when he can clearly read the title from the book on Edi’s lap: _The_ _Truce_ by Mario Benedetti. He realizes he’s nervous. Which is odd; he is not one to get nervous talking to his teammates.

“You like his work?” Diego raises his eyes and smiles.

“I’m not much of a reader. My old man gave it to me to read on the plane.” Edi responds.

His voice is the auditory equivalent of running one’s fingertips through silk; its tone is gentle and calm that Diego can feel himself relax, sinking deeper into his seat.

“Benedetti…If I remember correctly,” Diego lowers his eyes as he reaches to grasp Edi’s book, “his works are very… _sensual_.”

He takes the book from his lap and shifts his gaze to meet Edi’s briefly as if asking for permission to look through it. Edi is the first to look away quickly. His lips are parted, as if he wants to say something but he doesn’t, and just nods instead.

Everything feels noisy and close, like an accent on the momentary tension and for a sliver of a second, Diego wishes that Edi’s reticence wouldn’t make things so awkward.

Never mind that Benedetti was bold enough to write about the recklessness of love—dressing up the physical manifestation of powerful emotions in similes and metaphors that left you heaving and wanting to clutch your heart to steady its beats. Diego decides he won’t go down that line of conversation. He’s read it before—the story of a widower, ready to retire who unexpectedly falls in love with a younger woman and rediscovers his taste for life again. He pretends to read the summary inside the book jacket before he thumbs through the pages idly.

Diego turns towards Edi.

“I remember reading this and—” Diego extends his arm as he’s about to return the book, and the gesture coincides with the bus making an abrupt stop after exiting the highway. Mid-transfer, the book drops to the floor, and Diego’s hand ends up between Edi’s legs.

The kid reacts, but instead of angling his hand against Diego’s wrist to push him away, he ends up placing his hand over Diego’s hand.

When Diego pulls away, they recognize their bewildered surprise in each other’s faces as they both laugh to relieve the tension.

“Perdón, juro que fue sin querer—” Diego drives his apology resting his hand against Edi’s shoulder, face flushed with mild embarrassment.

“No te preocupes,” Edi leans, reaching below to pick up his book and turns his head to smile at Diego. “It’s okay— _really_.”

Diego doesn’t apologize again and just smiles. He takes Edi’s word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Diego gathers the notion that maybe Edi likes him. The idea occurs to him retrospectively, thanks to his tendency to ruminate.

Thoughts of Diego’s past mishaps and embarrassments have a way of finding him in the lulls between matches and their training schedule. The majority of these are all fútbol related. What better way than to spend precious recovery time obsessing about one’s mistakes to ensure that they never happen again?

This tendency sometimes goes to levels where it’s beyond masochistic. El Tota and El Loco know Diego’s tendency to self-flagellate. So they drag him out of his room. They keep him busy from staying in his head— _especially_ after a loss.

He’s brushing his teeth, preparing to go to bed when he’s mentally reviewing his day. As he’s checking his reflection in the mirror, wiping remnants of toothpaste from the corner of his lips, he thinks back to the moment his hand ended up between Edi’s legs. He had felt the kid’s arousal swell beneath the fabric of his warm ups. If he’s being honest with himself, he admits his hand had rested a moment longer, feeling Edi’s pulse while the kid held his hand against him.

It makes him think.

Perhaps Edi liked it. Perhaps he wanted him to stay there. He goes to bed, hoping that it’s true.


	2. Chapter 2

The match against South Africa is a different story. In fact, it surpasses Diego’s expectations.

He scores. Then, when Uruguay is awarded a penalty—he takes it and gets it in. Álvaro Pereira scores as well, the match ending with South Africa 0 – Uruguay 3.

The joy spills out of everyone’s pores at the final whistle, and the celebratory energy floods the changing room.

The veterans are the first to shower, and Diego makes it a quick one—caring only to clear his skin and hair from his sweat. He doesn’t fuss over his hair as much. There is no point when he and the remaining of the starting eleven were scheduled later in the day for physiotherapy followed by the dreaded ice baths.

None of them are wasting time; El Maestro was strict when it came to them observing the time limit to shower and get back onto the bus. He seals the knob shut, reaches for his towel, and steps out of his stall in haste.

It’s only when Diego gets to his station to change into his warmups that he realizes he’s left his toiletries in the shower and he runs back, only to see the stall he had just used is occupied.

“Con permiso, puedo—” He speaks over the sound of all the open showerheads pelting the tiled floors and the commotion back in the changing area. He realizes Edi is the one in there when he notices his kit hanging from the hook outside.

“Si, ¿que precisas?.” Edi responds.

Diego lowers his eyes and reaches to brush the shower curtain to the side, but stops himself when he hears Edi calling out:

“Wait—I got it.” Edi parts the curtain midway, “Here you go.” he gestures to hand Diego the bar of soap and travel-sized shampoo bottle.

Diego’s lips part open as he temporarily lays eyes on Edi’s lean, wiry frame. He had never really seen him out of his clothes. Edi’s got a gracile build—like a long-distance runner—but there’s something unmistakably striking in the way his torso tapers down to his small waist and the way his hips round out ever so slightly. Diego raises his eyes quickly and smiles, nodding his head to communicate his thanks. Edi looks back at him, lips tugging into a smile.

Diego ignores for a moment that perhaps he got caught looking at him. He’s fixed on the kid’s smile, and the things that it does to him.

Diego wants to believe that Edi’s smile is an invitation to step inside. Permission to push him against the tiled walls and exhale all of his wants against his neck. Consent to part his legs and work him open; to allow for Diego’s love in full blossom to make its way inside.

He lowers his gaze and knuckles his eye, attending to an itch that isn’t really there; what he’s really afraid of is that he’d give his thoughts away if he sustained eye contact for too long.

“Gracias.” Diego presses his lips together, casually waving his hand before he parts.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a pain that takes him a moment to put into words. It could be that he hasn’t had sex for several weeks, and he’s feeling the pressure build. Perhaps he needs an outlet. Diego mentions it casually to El Tota when they get back to the hotel. He was—after all—the only one that more or so less had it together. He had married young and knew the struggle that came with self-imposed restraint to honor his marriage vows when he was away from Karina.

He swears he’s forgotten how it feels to slide into a body, like a sword back into its sheath and lay in the contentment of being clung onto and needed.

They are not required to attend the conditioning session for recovery until a couple of hours later, so after settling in his room, he makes a long-distance call to his girlfriend.

Zaira is just twenty-two years old, but she is a svelte, exotic beauty. She is nearly everything that Diego wants. One of his pleasures after making love consisted in running his fingertips over her skin as she recovered by his side. He was in denial of how this soft and delicate creature could possibly share his bed. She was as nimble and slender as women her type could ever be. Her smile. The soft fragrance of her skin. The soft curves of her spine and her backside. The way her nipples hardened from his touch. Diego was infatuated with her dark brown tresses, and her pale green eyes. On a bright day, they became the color of the ocean. If he was wind, then she was his earth and sea. She was wholly his to ravage. He could have picked a blonde. A more submissive girl—a girl to his family’s liking. But no. From the moment they met backstage, after giving an interview, he had to have her.

It could be that because everyone in his family has white blonde hair and light-colored eyes that he’s always found dark features ravenously beautiful.

Light features are bland and flavorless, unless there’s a bit of contrast.

He travels back in time. To a time when he’s just a twelve-year old boy.

He’s sitting at the edge of his sister’s bed as he watches her apply mascara:

“Sometimes I wish I had brown hair,” Alejandra speaks, eyes wide open, fixed on some point in the ceiling as she works daintily to remove the clumps of mascara from the lower row of eyelashes. “I feel so… _colorless_ , you know?” she turns to look at Diego.

He must have a look on his face that she takes pity on and she explains herself further.

“It was like my psychology professor said. To appreciate the beauty in life, you need the experience of ugliness. You need to have something to contrast it against. It’s when light and dark meet…that you can have _magic_.” She gets up from her vanity table and cards a hand through his hair before she kisses his forehead.

“Mi amooooooorrr,” Zai purrs over the phone, bringing him back to the present, “ _Felicitaciones_ —we are all so very proud of you.”

Diego smiles, and reclines—placing the palm of his hand over his eyes, as if doing so would help him concentrate on what she looks like as she talks to him.  

He tries to recreate the curve of her smile, and the way she has a tendency to pout when she’s listening intently. He zones out briefly and lets her talk. The truth is, she knows nothing about football, but acts like she understands the effort it took to exploit the dynamics of the match to secure a win. He grows impatient.

“I miss you.” He cuts her off, midsentence.

“Te extraño también.” The way she says it, with an undertone of sensuality is enough to make the blood rush to his loins.

Zaira has an appetite to match his own, except she doesn’t verbalize it to him. She will meet his first thrust with restraint, with wide eyes and lips parted, as if she didn’t want to be taken when they both knew too well, she was begging to be fucked hard. In the way she modulates her voice and touches him, she knows how to communicate her wants. She knows how much the appearance of innocence feeds into a primal need he wasn’t even aware of until recently.

And it’s true.

Diego wants to be the first to touch something pure, as if doing so would cleanse him of all his sins, as if doing so would prevent him from unwittingly molding the little bit of unprimed innocence left in him to a state of depravity that matched a darkness in him he wants to get rid of, but doesn’t know _how_.

There is much that Zai doesn’t know about his past. The things he’s done and has had done to him. The things he’s agreed to do while at Manchester United as payment for leeway to care for his sister Alejandra after she suffered an accident that left her paralyzed.

At eighteen, Diego had no idea how life could strip you of more than just one layer of virginity. What he craved to find the most in his lovers was exactly what he let the beat-up face of life take away from him.

“I have to go.” He hums over the speaker after a moment of silence between them.

“Te quiero mucho.” Zaira whispers. The way she says it, Diego can tell she’s smiling.

“Yo también.” He responds before he hangs up.

The door creaks open and Diego’s eyes catch El Tota walking in, just in time for _la siesta_.

Between the excitement of winning, and everything else in between, Diego’s got so much on his mind. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to sleep.

 

 

 

José Herrera, whom everyone called _El Profe_ was a bit old-school in his recommendations for conditioning and recovery, and he required all of them take daily ice baths. No amount of complaining would get him to change his mind. Luisito had run his mouth so much already, that El Profe learned to pay him no mind anymore.

Like good Uruguayans, they curse up a storm as they force themselves to step in.

They’re all cursing, except Diego. The ice baths aren’t so bad. Sure, it takes a while to acclimate to the cold. It’s just the first step—the jarring sensation of immersing oneself in the cold that’s hard.

He finds relief when he plunges without an afterthought into the ice bath he shares with El Tota Lugano and Sebastián Abreu— _El Loco_. The biting sensation of the cold seizes all of his senses. And there’s something oddly comforting when one thing becomes the only thing you can think of. You can lose your sense of self like that. You can’t conjugate the verb “hurt” or “feel” with “I” anyone…because the self no longer exists. Just the cold.

His mind goes blank in a manner that is similar to when he collapses after unloading himself in the arms of a lover.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hand them over, fool—” Victorino huffs gesturing his hand to Luis, “that’s not how you shuffle.”

Diego reclines further against the sofa, bouncing his knee and throws a glance at Edi, who’s sitting across from him. There was news that SSC Napoli were interested in him now, and the kid was smiling as if he had touched the heavens. Diego has to comment on it:

“I remember when I got picked up by Manchester United from _Independiente_. I felt like… _this is it_. I’ve really made it.”

Luis drops the deck onto the table into a messy pile, and Victorino glowers before addressing Diego’s comment:

“Manchester’s a trash team.” He keeps his eyes lowered, arranging the cards into a compact deck, and Edi’s eyebrows leap in surprise while he turns to look at Diego. Victorino continues:

“Didn’t they bully you for years and then sell you for dirt cheap…like you were the most useless player ever?”

Diego smiles and shrugs with feigned indifference. It’s true that some of his most bitter years were at Manchester United, and Alex Ferguson was quite adept at attempting to wear away at his dignity for his repeated decision to choose his family over his duties to the club. He can’t exactly blame the guy. He wasn’t delivering the goals, so he couldn’t complain when Cristiano Ronaldo won his spot.

“Diego, seriously now—not to bust your balls—" Victorino bends the deck as he watches the cards mix in his hands, “Manchester _is_ a trash team. There’s a reason why everyone hates that club—they’re top dog and—”

“What’s wrong with supporting a club that always wins?” Luis cuts Victorino off.

“People identify with the underdog. They want to see the little guy throw off the yoke and win.” Victorino starts to deal the cards out.

After a few beats of silence, Luis speaks up:

“But then you have a new top dog.” Luis slaps his hands over his cards. He begins arranging them and then adds: “Nothing worse than someone bullied with a vengeance.”

“Bullshit.” Victorino shuts down Luis.

“No, I agree Luisito,” Diego shifts forward to sit closer to the edge of the sofa and collects his cards, “Mau—” he raises his eyes as if to drive his point to Victorino, “Can you think of any victims who didn’t turn the tables as soon as they had the chance?”

Diego observes El Tota nod in agreement from the corner of his eye.

“The hunted eventually becomes the hunters.” Martín chimes in.

“And it makes perfect sense—” Diego looks around him, “it’s _simple_ physics—every action has an equal and opposite reaction. It pertains to social behavior as well.”

“El Maestro’s best student has spoken.” El Loco stands closer from behind the sofa where Diego is sitting and slaps both hands on Diego’s shoulders.

“Hey, Edi—” Luis calls out, “You should spend more time around Cacha. You might gain some more brain cells.”

It’s in the way that Edi inclines his head with a note of shame, and the way Luis and Martín exchange glances with each other before they let out an ugly bark of laughter that lets Diego know he wasn’t let in on a joke. He knocks the back of his hand against El Tota’s arm.

“What did I miss?” He asks in a hushed voice.

“Wait—Cacha, nobody told you?” Luis repositions himself to look at Diego.

“Come on, Luisito. It’s not funny—” Edi runs his hand through his hair nervously. He turns around to look at Martín with surprise when he starts to tell the story:

“So Luisito was taking a shower, right? And the doorbell rings so I get the door. El Loco comes in and Edi’s with him.” Martín gestures with his hands as Luis takes over.

“And Edi just walks in to our bathroom as I’m taking a shower and asks me if I’m getting hot water. So I tell him ‘ _yes’_. And this fool here goes, ‘Wait, but _how_?’ like it’s fucken’ rocket science or something.” Luis throws a glance at Edi before he continues, “So then I tell him, ‘Easy. You turn on the knobs.’ And he gives me the look that he’s giving me now.”

Diego breaks eye contact briefly with Luis and throws a glance in Edi’s general direction and can tell that Edi isn’t amused in the least.

“He tells me he’s not getting any hot water. So I show him. ‘ _Look_. It’s in English. The knob with “C” is for cold water and the knob with the “H” is for hot water.’ And then he goes ‘Ohhhhh. I thought “C” was for _caliente_ [hot] and “H” was for _helada_ [cold].’”

The group breaks into a collective cackle of laughter that is so obnoxiously loud, El Tota has to gesture for everyone to tone it down a little. Diego brings the palm of his hand to his face and lowers his head, shoulders shaking with laughter. He steals a glance at El Tota sitting beside him who’s trying his best to contain himself. Diego looks at Edi, who’s half-smiling, trying to take the teasing lightly. Their eyes meet, and Edi looks away, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I look at him and ask, but didn’t you at least try the other knob? To see what happens?” Luis slaps his knees in agitation before adding “I told him, ‘You know what—you deserve having gone to bed taking cold showers this entire time.” Luis turns to look at Edi, “For being an _idiot_.”

Edi throws his cards back on the table and gets up.

“I think I’m done for tonight.” Edi announces and motions to Martín to move over.

“Awww—come on Edi, don’t be mad.” Martín pulls on his jacket sleeve.

“No, not mad. It’s getting close to midnight, and I’m tired.” Edi shakes his arm free.

“You’ve got a whole hour before the midnight curfew, fool.” Luis calls out. “Sit back down and play.”

“Goodnight, everyone—except Luis.” Edi mumbles as he adjusts his jacket and walks out.

Diego puts down his set of cards. He languidly reclines back against the sofa for a few beats.

“You guys play without me this round. I just want to check on him.” Diego rises, nudging El Tota for permission to pass.

“He’ll be fine, Cacha.” Luis calls out, “I wouldn’t worry about him too much. Just play with us.”

 

 

 

 

 

The floor is so still, so indelibly silent that when Diego stops in front of the door to Edi’s room, he swears the way his heart is pounding is enough to announce his presence. And it makes no sense to him. Why his heart leaps and skips the way it does. He hasn’t even found the nerve to knock on the door.

The doubt creeps in on him. What if Luisito was right? That there was no real need to check on Edi. That he was just making an excuse. What was his excuse?

When Diego finally knocks, he makes it a point that he’ll keep his visit brief, maybe suggest to the boy that the quicker he learns to not take himself seriously, the easier it will be for him moving forward in a career where every little response is magnified and twisted into things beyond recognition. The biggest mistake was to show any response that could be taken for weakness or vulnerability.

The look Edi gives him when he opens the door tells Diego that he wasn’t expecting to see him, and it takes the kid a moment to realize he’s just been standing behind the door for a moment too long and hasn’t let him in.

“S-sorry, Seba’s side of the room is a mess—” Edi wipes his nose against his sleeve while he steps aside.

“I hope I was not interrupting anything. I can always come back another time...” Diego sticks his hands into his pockets and scans the area. The kid wasn’t kidding about El Loco’s mess. His eyes rest on Edi’s face, and Diego’s mouth opens as if he wants to say something but decides that _I just wanted to make sure you were okay._ is better left unsaid.

“I was just about to take a quick shower. Earlier I played table—”

“Did you figure out how to get hot water?” Diego interrupts Edi as he places a hand over his shoulder and squeezes. He smiles when Edi lowers his head and chuckles.

“That’s how you should have responded out there.” Diego’s hand moves, cupping the side of Edi’s face. “Look at me.” He commands as he slides underneath his chin, motioning to draw the kid’s face upwards.

They’ve made eye contact in numerous occasions. But not like this. Diego can see a restrained wildness in the way Edi looks at him.

“Never let them see that they got to you.” Diego speaks to him calmly but with a firm urgency while he withdraws his hand. “Never.”

“I’m sorry, I know—”

“And stop apologizing for everything.” Diego cuts him off.

“Is that all you came here for? Just to give me the talking to?” Edi snaps as he rolls his shoulders back.

Diego pulls his lips in, taking a moment to choose his words.

“It’s not my job, or anyone’s job to tell you how to conduct yourself. I just thought—”

“So if you didn’t come in to yell at me, why are you here?” Edi interrupts Diego. “Look…you might think I’m just a dumb kid…but I’m not that stupid, Diego. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

It takes all the strength Diego has left that night to keep his face neutral. As if what Edi just told him didn’t feel like he applied pressure over contused skin. It puts him in a position where he’s forced to fight fire with fire.

“How do I look at you?” Diego keeps his tone of voice calm yet firm.

To his satisfaction, Edi loses the bravado and recoils. It’s in the way his eyes widen for a fraction of a second and how his mouth parts in surprise before closing it. He doesn’t look so overly confident in what he wants to say anymore.

Diego smiles to alleviate the strain, to break the unease of the silence between them. He steps closer towards Edi, close enough to extend his arm to run his fingers over his hair. He takes care to be gentle in the way his fingers run through his dark strands, careful to not tug when one of his fingers gets caught in one of his waves. Diego notices the way Edi’s breathing relaxes under his touch. The kid shuts his eyes, and Diego steps closer.

“Tell me.” Diego speaks in a half whisper against Edi’s ear, lips barely grazing over his earlobe. It unleashes a gratifying shiver, evidenced in the way the boy parts his lips in a silent gasp. “How do I look at you?”

Years of experience in seducing and being seduced inform Diego that if he wanted to, he could sweep in to kiss Edi, and not be met with rejection. The kid’s eyelids are now half-open, and when Diego slides his hand down the expanse of Edi’s torso to rest on the small of his back, he can feel his body relax. Diego knows he could kiss Edi, and that the kid would kiss him back. But he doesn’t. He needs to know Edi wants him badly enough to close in on the little space between them and open his mouth for him to taste him. Diego has led him this far, but he needs Edi to be the one to make the first move.

Diego doesn’t want for any possibility of reproach to emerge the next day, or years later down the line—that he had used his position to coerce the kid into something he might regret. So he keeps his eyes downcast, face close as he holds the boy against him. He can taste Edi’s hesitation, in the way senses the boy’s eyes scanning his face.

When it happens, it feels almost anticlimactic. The buildup had excited Diego to the point that he nearly doesn’t respond the very instant that Edi presses his mouth against his. He smiles against Edi’s mouth, and for the first few kisses, they keep it chaste, just lips until Diego works up the boldness to lick into Edi’s mouth. The kid makes a sound, part surprise, part satisfaction that makes Diego bear both hands against Edi’s waist, pressing the boy against him.

Diego breaks their kiss and smiles as he nuzzles playfully against Edi’s neck.

“So tell me…how is it that I look at you?” Diego speaks into his skin before pulling back to look at him.

Edi smiles, shaking his head and throws a fist of defeat against Diego’s shoulder.

“Diego, please don’t make me say it.” Edi looks at Diego, and licks the swell of his lower lip.

Edi’s sense of modesty and inexperience with sex don’t put Diego off. He finds this innocence beautiful. Almost endearing. It imbues him with a sense of responsibility to be gentle with him. To not rush anything, or make him do anything he doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t insist in trying to get Edi to talk about sex. To make him admit that the way that they’ve been exchanging glances this entire time didn’t communicate a mutual desire to give each other’s bodies up.

He swoops down to give Edi a quick bite of a kiss and grabs a handful of Edi’s backside before delivering a playful slap.

“Go on and take your shower. I’ll catch you tomorrow for the morning mate with the squad.” Diego speaks as he walks towards the door. “It’s too late to talk about what I came here for.”

He turns to look back at Edi, who smiles at him with a look he hadn’t seen in him before. The way his dark eyelashes bear down against his cheeks, slightly flushed makes it hard for Diego to close to door behind him.

“Buenas noches, Diego.”


	4. Chapter 4

Their last group stage match against Mexico is hard-fought. Mexico’s defense resists all attempts to get them to break up. Also, despite the Uruguayan attack making multiple shots on target, the openings to score are just far too narrow. Diego is vigilant the entire time, looking for all the ways he can direct his teammates and deceive their opponents to give them way. It’s true—a portion of football is left to chance, but Diego places his trust in strategy. He knows the defense is onto him, which is why he uses his presence to lure them away from Luisito and Edi.

It's the result of a labor of love. The ball makes it to Edi, who chips it over to Luisito, who gets it in.

Luis has to cry because it would hurt too much to hold it in. It almost feels like the first time you pull the trigger to fire a bullet. Despite what others tell you, you never expect the recoil to be as strong. You’re left dumbfounded, hand shaking, and face numb for a few seconds. Luis knows the feeling. He’s fired a gun before. And Luis has scored goals before, but never at a World Cup with the National Team. Not with _La_ _Selección_.

Others have told him scoring for Uruguay is a sensation that can’t be described. It has to be felt. They warned him:

You’ll forget to breathe.

Choke back the urge to cry out.

Or let it all out.

For Luisito, the impact is that strong, he lets it all out.

He drops to his knees, jutting his arms out in excitement and empties another yell—part exhilaration and part disbelief—into the open. Edi runs to meet Luisito before the rest catch up to celebrate. He falls on his knees, throwing his arms around Luis’ neck, body shaking and voice breaking from the rush of emotion that pulses through him. Luis forgets how much huskier he is compared to Edi, so when he throws himself to meet Edi’s embrace, they both topple to the ground and roll on the pitch.

 

 

 

 

 

Back in the dressing room, it’s all they can talk about. The only goal that crowned them winners.

“You looked like lovers.” Martín comments as they get changed and looks at Luis to see his reaction.

Luis wrinkles his nose.

“Sin offender al Edi [No offense to Edi]—I wouldn’t tap a bag of bones. You already know—cuando hay carne, hay fiesta. [where there’s meat, that’s where the party’s at.]”

Martín’s eyes disappear as he lets out his hyena-like cackle of a laugh.

“¿De que te ríes vos?” [What are you laughing at?] Luis lobs one of his socks at him.

Fernando catches Luis’ sock and tosses it back to him.

“I’d lose all modesty to celebrate scoring too, if I could.” Nando slaps the back of Martín’s head.

“Would you run around naked if we win the cup?” Luis asks Edi, who simply adjusts the zipper of his warmups and gives Luis a blank stare. His thoughts clearly were somewhere else.

Martín wants to comment how lately Edi seems to have his head in the clouds. It’s not the first time this week that he’s caught off-guard when someone asks him a question. He blinks in annoyance. He’s about to say something but closes his mouth when he catches Diego making his way out of the dressing room alongside their Captain.

“Let’s go _guirises_ [kids]. Hurry up and get dressed.” El Tota announces, as Diego walks towards Luis.

“Luisito,” He palms the side of his face affectionately, “good job today.”

Edi watches as Luis’ face brightens for a few seconds and then he lowers his head. His eyes look down at his bare feet, and the corner of his mouth twitches—just mildly put off by the bruise on one of his toenails as he prepares to put on his socks.

When Diego hugs him from behind, encircling his torso, tapping against his chest with his hand, Edi swears everything stops hurting.

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, it’s all light work with weights and resistance bands. They do more than their usual share of dynamic stretching.

Diego is used to feeling sore. He doesn’t expect to wake up and not feel tight and wound up. None of them do. They all eventually get to the point of accepting the discomfort as the new normal. He inhales sharply when he has to ease into a stretch that hurts and visualizes the threads and fibers of his quadriceps expand, making space for the blood to reach the tight spaces.

Luis lies on his back, one leg extended and barely able to bring his forehead to meet his knee. “Fucking hamstings.” He mutters just as Diego sits back up. He’s about to comment when El Tota pinches his forearm.

“Look” El Tota pulls up the hem of his shorts, “ _Look_ at how fucking tight I am. And I swear to you I’m not even flexing.”

Diego lowers his eyes to steal a glance at the bulge of El Tota’s quadricep muscle before their eyes meet. He doesn’t know what to tell him. He’s not looking for sympathy of any sort, because it’s not typical of him to complain. It takes him a moment to realize it was an indirect slight thrown at Luisito. He was, after all, the only fool complaining out loud.

 

 

 

 

 

After their morning conditioning session, they find out that the staff had prepared a _parrillada_ style _asado_ to celebrate Uruguay making it to the round of 16. They’re told that they have to wear their warmups because they’re expected to take a group photo.

They crowd around to get their serving and use the time to bond with the staff they hardly come into contact with. Guillermo and Minguta, the kit men who get up as early as 4 hrs to set up their vestments. The sports medicine staff. Their trainers. El Profe. Even El Maestro. It’s one of the few instances where they can all be together in a relaxed setting.

They’re all grateful that El Maestro believes in temperance, and not in dwelling in extremes. He won’t allow them to drink cola, but figures that seltzer is a happy medium—offering the refreshing tickle of carbonated water in your mouth without all the sugar.

Diego catches sight of Edi as he brings his bottle to his lips. The kid’s shoulders are slightly hunched and his neck barely cranes over his plate as he sweeps the heme and burnt edges of his steak with a slice of bread. He huddles closer to Martín who passes him a bottle of seltzer.

They haven’t talked much at all outside the context of training. Not since they’ve kissed.

It surprises Diego when he realizes how Edi innocently works his spell over him with gestures as simple as wrapping his full lips around the rim of his bottle, tipping it just slightly upward as a hint of his tongue darts in while his cheeks hollow. He makes himself look away briefly to regain his composure after watching Edi’s throat expanding as he swallows. When he looks back up, he finds that Edi is looking at him. It almost makes him wonder if the boy could access every lascivious thought crossing his mind. He’s relieved when El Maestro approaches him, giving him an excuse to give his back to him. As the old adage goes: Out of sight. Out of mind.

 

 

 

 

 

Later that afternoon, the conversation on the phone with his Zaira takes a turn towards the erotic as she speaks in a low whisper, with excruciating detail, the things she wants to do to him. Lying in his bed, Diego closes his eyes, while he lowers a hand below the waistband of his warm ups. He desperately tries to make out her face. Imagine her full lips encircling him. Her mouth taking him whole. Her red lipstick smeared and her mascara running as her eyes water. Instead Diego sees Edi crouching over him, a hand encircling his base. He sees himself sink deeper into Edi’s mouth, his beautiful spit slick lips forming a tight seal while keeping intense eye contact. He comes quicker than usual.

That’s how Diego realizes he’s in trouble.


End file.
